The Cage: Simulation

April 16, 2018

I have a theory that we do not exist. I have a theory that all I am is chemical reactions and spliced cells. I have a theory that all I can be is chemical reactions and spliced cells. I learn, I teach, and then I learn – however, all I am is chemical reactions and spliced cells.

“Are you really worth your weight in knowledge?” I ask myself.

“What purpose do we all poses besides having been born to then die?” someone asks… I ask myself. Who asked that?

Contemplation, temptation, a complete annihilation of a peace of mind I felt I once had, yet I never actually had it. I’ve never had clarity, or peace of mind. Pieces of my mind however, those are endless, those saturate my nervous system, splitting me into a million tiny ideas.

Factors outside of my control factor outside of my control. Yet anxiety eats up my energy, and sad interactions eat up my time. I have a theory that the reason we have anxiety is so that we can limit ourselves – it’s the universe, or the divine, preventing the advancement of evolution. WE cannot evolve further, if so we would all die off after we’ve killed everything else off. WE cannot evolve further, if so we would not have the ability to die off. I have a theory that the world is made up of binary oppositions, only binary oppositions. WE want to believe that there’s such a thing as ambiguity, a middle ground, a place where we’re not truly in the sun, yet not truly in the dark. I have a feeling we cannot be, therefore we cannot see. 

I have a theory that once I close my eye, you no longer exist.

“Why? “ You ask.

Because when I close my eyes I cannot perceive you, you do not exist. Our interactions together are limitless, yet they are also limited. I have a theory that all I say about you is nothing more than a theory. 

“Will I ever really know you?” sleeping in the same bed, sharing the same space. “I have a feeling I will never really know myself.” 

“Will you ever really know me?” fighting over spoiled milk, sharing the same space. “You have a feeling you will never know yourself.”

I have a theory that feelings are just chemicals, neurotransmitters firing back and forth like a woven chain of train tracks, thousands and thousands of trains, yet they all only have on destination. I have a theory that the person you see is not actually a person. Just a curated adaptation of the environment around them – a curated representation of what you think you want from me, what I want from myself… what I want from you, what I want from myself… What I don’t allow myself.

Theories are just theories, and my opinion is my own, yet from experience, there is no greater weapon than an ignorant opinion. Mental illness is an ignorant opinion, mental health is an ignorant opinion. A clarity of opinion is an ignorant opinion. You cannot say you have an opinion.

“I have an opinion,” in a quiet room, where you’re the only voice being heard. “Listen to my opinion.”

“Do you have an opinion?” I’m the guy in the room waiting, waiting, waiting. “What is your opinion?”

I have a theory that all we are is lies, I have a theory that we’re just a reflection of a reflection – of a reflection. I have a theory we pretend to pretend. I have a theory that all we are is theories. All we are is theories – all I am are theories. All I am is what I think I’ve managed to create on my own. No. Not realizing I’m not original. 

“I’m not original,” talking about new inventions and endless possibilities. “I have a feeling I am not original.”

“You’re not original,” talking about the same things you always talk about. “You have a feeling you are not original.” 

“We all talk about what we want from life, yet we don’t actively seek it – anxiety ridden deer’s’ caught in headlights.” Bags of rotting flesh. Bags under your eyes from not sleeping. Bags under your eyes from trying not to sleep. A blanket over your head, your fingers typing away, having a million interactions, yet not having a genuine interaction. Actually… not having a single interaction.

I have a theory that at the end of it all, there’s nothing for us to have, we cannot have it all, if that were that case, we would never die – born to die. I die and then someone else is born, they too will have the same thoughts, worry about the same things, hate that they hate yet enjoy when they can express that opinion. They too will wait, spend their time waiting. Waiting. Always waiting.

She sits at her desk every morning, her hair in a ponytail because her boss complimented her once, the way it drapes over her shoulder, the glow of a silk-skin having brunette with an opinion, passions, originality.

“Not just a compliment, it lingered.” So, now she wears her hair in a ponytail. Now she wears her shirt buttoned all the way up, a white button down shirt that’s three sizes too big. She doesn’t ever iron it, she barely ever washes it. On her desk is a thermos, coffee, black, only black coffee. She types away, waiting, always waiting, and waiting. She has a theory that she doesn’t exist. She has a theory that she bleeds and she breathes, yet she still believes she doesn’t exist. She believes she can see herself. She has a theory that she lives outside of herself, a reality that isn’t real, a life that is artificial. Always anxious, like she’s seen it all before – because she has seen it all before. At one point all she could manage was to go about her day, feeling like everything she does, everything she says, has already been planned out for her, it has already been set in stone. Like a formula, yet one so difficult, many people fail at mastering it. 

So she won’t sleep, she’ll avoid it, it will avoid her. She’ll wait, hoping to birth creativity, make a name for herself, be seen like she’s always wanted. Seen for her ideas, her contributions, her impact. She has a theory years will pass her by and she’ll keep waiting…